Hi, Everyone. Happy Friday.
Now that the weekend is nearly here, what have you got planned? Writing, editing, reading, family outings? For me, I will be editing my first novel AND reading the Romantic Friday Writers' excerpts. Yes, there is another prompt for the new year! Denise and Donna came up with a fun challenge for us. AND there is still time if you'd like to join us. Drop by the
RFW to sign up.
This months prompt is New Year! New Love! Write up to a thousand word excerpt about "Out with the old and in with the new." Write about your guy or girl's new plan for attacking the dating scene. It could be something from a present WIP or something you whip out from your imaginations.
My excerpt today is a new segment from my current WIP, a 1940's film noir novella. Please let me know what you think. Since I am sort a rebel when it comes to romantic writing... especially since I honesty don't think of myself as the typical romantic writer, I put a very different spin on this prompt. I am a descriptive writer, and painting a scene with words is very important to the atmosphere of this genre ... I hope you enjoy it. And don't forget to drop by the RFW to read the other entries.
Sheets of ice frost the city streets on this frigid Chicago morning. Hot steam billows from the subway grates on State St. as scuffed wing-tipped shoes pounds the pavement. Clad in a stained, tan trench coat, he turns onto Maple St. and heads toward Dearborn St. “Two more blocks ... damn him anyway,” he spouts, pulling his coat tighter against his body.
A gust of wind flips the brim of his hat and rips it off the bald man’s head, skipping across the street. He races after it, dodging a Ford model A as “AWOOGA” screams past him. Cursing, he shakes his fist at the driver, picks up his hat and plops it back onto his head. He takes one step toward the sidewalk and slips on a patch of black ice, landing on his considerable backside. “I’ll kill the bastard, if he ain’t already dead.”
Easing himself back onto his feet, he continues his journey muttering to himself. He turns the corner onto Dearborn St. and stops in front of a rundown Greystone. The gate creaks open and he climbs the stairs of the front stoop. A stiff finger pushes the buzzer several times and is immediately followed by a clenched fist banging on the door.
“Hold your horses. I’m coming,” shouts a raspy female voice. The door opens. “It’s about time you got here. He’s in a real state. What a way to start the new year,” she said, as an ash drops from her dangling cigarette onto the cracked mosaic tile floor.
“What happened?” He steps into the foyer. “I gotta call from him late last night, but I barely understood one blast dang word he said.”
“Above my pay grade to find out.” She reaches into her robe pocket and pulls out a skeleton key. “Knock first, then let yourself in. I’m not shlepping up them stairs again. His door’s at the top.”
He heads up the stairs, jingling the keys. Heavy breaths huff and wheeze from his throat by the second floor; sweat drips off his bulbous nose by the third; and as he reaches the final floor he collapses, struggling to catch a single breath.
Crawling to the once glossy, black paneled door, he uses the handle and heaves himself off the threadbare carpet. He knocks. No answer. He knocks again. Something inside crashes.
“You okay in there?”
A loud thud hits hard and vibrates the hardwood under his feet. “Hold on. I’m commin in.” Fumbling with the key, he unlocks the door. From the overwhelming stench of stale cigarettes and scotch, he coughs. His eyes water as the only stream of sunlight fights its way through the haze of lingering smoke. Waving a frostbitten hand, he steps toward the faint light, kicking the remains of a broken dish, and opens the window. An arctic blast sweeps the room in a matter of seconds.
As the air clears, hunched broad shoulders and bare, muscular arms lay across a rickety wooden table. A mass of raven tousled hair hides most of the man’s unshaven face. An empty scotch bottle sits dangerously at the edge next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
“Damn, Cal. How may bottles of that giggle water did ya drink?” He nudges him. A glass slips out of Cal’s hand and shatters on the floor. “What the hell’s wrong wit cha, you big lug. I thought ya was hardboiled. Snap out of it.”
Cal grunts; shifts, lifting his body a few inches, and plunges back onto the table.
“Come on, Cal. Get up. Ya gotta get to the precinct before ya lose your job.” He grabs a handful of Cal’s hair and peels him away from the table. “Did ya hear me?”
Cal flutters his eyes open. A grin etches into his face. “Hi ya, Clancy.” His eye lids drop.
“Sorry Cal, but ya got this commin to ya. ” Smack.
Cal jolts upright and stares at Clancy. “Now what did you do that for?” His body trembles and slumps back into the chair. He shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”
“Good. You’re up. Ya need a pot of joe.” Clancy steps into the kitchen and rummages around. Finds a coffee pot, fills it with water, and sets it aside. “Your landlady called the precinct,” he said, scooping in the coffee. He pulls a book of matches from his pocket and turns on the gas. “She’s a real peach, ain’t she?” He smirks, strikes a match, and lights the stove.
“But why?” Cal rubs his eyes and attempts to stand, but loses his balance and flops into the chair.
“Why? You’re kiddin me, right? Because you’ve been drunk for three days and it stinks to high heaven in here. So she called us.” He faces Cal. “Ya look like the dickens. Why the three day bender anyways?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal croaked.
“It’s that dame, ain’t it?”
Cal shakes his head, stumbles over to the sink, and splashes water onto his face.
“Only a dame could do this to a bloke,” Clancy said, folding his arms.
“She wasn’t a dame ... she was —” Cal slicks back his hair, pushes Clancy out of the way, grabs hold of the chair, and sinks into it.
Clancy pours hot coffee into a cup and bangs it on the table in front of Cal. “Drink this. Ya gotta get dressed. The captain’s waitin for ya.”
Cal slurps the coffee and turns his bloodshot eyes up. “Thanks, Clancy. It’s over. She’s gone. I’m through with young girls.” He raises a thick brow. “It’s women for me from now on.”
A toothy smile plasters across Clancy’s face. “That a boy, now getta a move on.”
938 words.
Have a great weekend everyone!
Aren't they stunning? Especially on such a GRAY day...
WINTER had returned ... 
